Under Big Ben boys were calling – political news, he supposed. Those Labour chaps were going to fall – some editor had got them into trouble. He would! Well – one down, t’other come on! It was all remote to him. She alone – she alone mattered.
Chapter Twelve
MICHAEL MUSES
MICHAEL and Mr Blythe sought the Mother of Parliaments and found her in commotion. Liberalism had refused, and’ Labour was falling from its back. A considerable number of people were in Parliament Square contemplating Big Ben and hoping for sensation.
‘I’m not going in,’ said Michael. ‘There won’t be a division tonight. General Election’s a foregone conclusion, now. I want to think.’
‘One will go up for a bit,’ said. Mr Blythe; and they parted, Michael returning to the streets. The night was clear, and he had a longing to hear the voice of his country. But – where? For his countrymen would be discussing this pro and that con, would be mentioning each his personal ‘grief’ – here the Income Tax, there the dole, the names of leaders, the word Communism. Nowhere would he catch the echo of the uneasiness in the hearts of all. The Tories – as Fleur had predicted – would come in now. The country would catch at the anodyne of ‘strong stable government’. But could strong stable government remove the inherent canker, the lack of balance in the top-heavy realm? Could it still the gnawing ache which everybody felt, and nobody would express?
‘Spoiled,’ thought Michael, ‘by our past prosperity. We shall never admit it,’ he thought, ‘never! And yet in our bones we feel it!’
England with the silver spoon in her mouth and no longer the teeth to hold it there, or the will to part with it! And her very qualities – the latent ‘grit’, the power to take things smiling, the lack of nerves and imagination! Almost vices, now, perpetuating the rash belief that England could still ‘muddle through’ without special effort, although with every year there was less chance of recovering from shock, less time in which to exercise the British ‘virtues’. ‘Slow in the uptak’,’ thought Michael, ‘it’s a ghastly fault in 1924.’
Thus musing, he turned East. Mid-theatre-hour, and the ‘Great Parasite’ – as Sir James Foggart called it – was lying inert and bright. He walked the length of wakeful Fleet Street into the City so delirious by day, so dead by night. Here England’s wealth was snoozing off the day’s debauch. Here were all the frame and filaments of English credit And based on – what? On food and raw material from which England, undefended in the air, might be cut off by a fresh war; on Labour, too big for European boots. And yet that credit stood high still, soothing all with its ‘panache’ – save, perhaps, receivers of the dole. With her promise to pay, England could still purchase any-thing, except a quiet heart.
And Michael walked on – through Whitechapel, busy still and coloured – into Mile End. The houses had become low, as if to give the dwellers a better view of stars they couldn’t reach. He had crossed a frontier. Here was a different race almost; another England, but as happy-go-lucky and as hand-to-mouth as the England of Fleet Street and the City. Aye, and more! For the England in Mile End knew that whatever she felt could have no effect on policy. Mile on mile, without an end, the low grey streets stretched towards the ultimate deserted grass. Michael did not follow them, but coming to a cinema, turned in.
The show was far advanced. Bound and seated in front of the bad cowboy on a bronco, the heroine was crossing what Michael shrewdly suspected to be the film company’s pet paddock. Every ten seconds she gave way to John T. Bronson, manager of the Tucsonville Copper Mine, devouring the road in his 60-h.p. Packard, to cut her off before she reached the Pima river. Michael contemplated his fellow gazers. Lapping it up! Strong stable government – not much! This was their anodyne and they could not have enough of it. He saw the bronco fall, dropped by a shot from John T. Bronson, and the screen disclose the words: ‘Hairy Pete grows desperate.… ’ ‘You shall not have her, Bronson.’ Quite! He was throwing her into the river instead, to the words: ‘John T. Bronson dives.’ There he goes! He has her by her flowing hair! But Hairy Pete is kneeling on the bank. The bullets chip the water. Through the heroine’s fair perforated shoulder the landscape is almost visible. What is that sound? Yes! John T. Bronson is setting his teeth! He lands, he drags her out. From his cap he takes his automatic. Still dry – thank God!
‘Look to yourself, Hairy Pete!’ A puff of smoke. Pete squirms and bites the sand – he seems almost to absorb the desert. ‘Hairy Pete gets it for keeps!’ Slow music, slower! John T. Bronson raises the reviving form. Upon the bank of the Pima river they stand embraced, and the sun sets. ‘At last, my dinky love!’